An oblong house, of the type known as "wattle and daub," with high-pitched thatch roof, partitioned within so as to form three rooms-- a house rough and ready in construction and aspect, but far more comfortable than appearances seemed to warrant. Half a dozen circular huts with conical roofs, clustered around, serving the purpose of kitchen and storehouse and quarters for native servants; beyond these, again, a smaller oblong structure, constituting a stable, the whole walled round by a stockade of mopani poles;--and there you have a far more imposing establishment than that usually affected by the pioneer settler. Around, the country is undulating and open, save for a not very thick growth of mimosa; but on one hand a series of great granite kopjes rise abruptly from the plain, the gigantic boulders piled one upon the other in the fantastic and arbitrary fashion which forms such a characteristic feature in the landscape of a large portion of Rhodesia. "Well?" The woman was the first to break the silence--equally a characteristic feature, a cynic might declare. "Well?" The answer was staccato, and not a little pettish. The first speaker smiled softly to herself. She revelled in her power, and was positively enjoying the cat and mouse game, though it might have been thought that long custom would have rendered even that insidious pastime stale and insipid. "So sorry you have to go," she murmured sweetly. "But it's getting late, and you'll hardly reach home before dark." The start--the blank look which overspread his features--all this, too, she thoroughly enjoyed. "Have to go," he echoed. "Oh, well--yes, of course, if you want to get rid of me--" "I generally do want to get rid of people when they are sulky, and disagreeable, and ill-tempered," was the tranquil reply. But the expression of her eyes, raised full to his, was such as to take all the sting out of her words. Not quite all, however, for his mind was in that parlous state best defined as "worked up"--and the working-up process had been one, not of hours or of days, but of weeks. "Well, then, good-bye." Then, pausing: "Why do you torment me like this, Hermia, when you know--" "What's that? I didn't say you might call me by my name." "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs Blachland," was the reply, bitterly, resentfully emphatic. Then, thawing suddenly, "You didn't mind it the other day, and--well, you know what you are to me and always will be." "Until somebody else is more so," came the smiling interruption. "Hark"--raising a hand suddenly, and listening intently. "Yes, it is. Will you be a very dear boy, Justin, and do something for me?" "You know I would do anything for you--anything in the wide world." "Oh, this is nothing very great. There are guinea-fowl over there in the kopje--I can hear them. I only want you to take Hilary's gun, and go and shoot me a few. Will you? The supplies are running low."